


soft in your palm

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Oh You Know..., Somnophilia, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It is expected that at midday, after they had done their regular meetings and rounds, Linhardt should be asleep. What Hubert does not – cannot – anticipate is Linhardt himself.In the rare hot summer that has overtaken Garreg Mach, Linhardt is dressed in silks – he’s lying down halfway on his side, one very naked leg precariously slipping off the side of the bed. He’s wearing a single piece of dark red fabric, shoulders entirely exposed, lined with ribbon and frills at the collar and hem. Its sides are a criss-cross of laced fabric and if Hubert untangled one of them, the entire thing could unspool in his hands like a gift, fruit for the taking underneath. Linhardt looks so relaxed, so vulnerable, open-faced as he makes an involuntary sigh and shifts onto his belly – the silk nightgown shifts as well, riding up, exposing the curve of his backside, and Hubert hears himself make a choked sound.Linhardt is far too trusting, Hubert thinks. Or maybe not.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	soft in your palm

**Author's Note:**

> written for the fe3h kinkmeme light - https://fe3h-kinkmeme-light.dreamwidth.org/452.html?thread=97476#cmt97476

Hubert catches Linhardt’s eye across the library.

It is not uncommon that they seek each other out, and it usually is him that turns his gaze away. Pretending he doesn’t know Linhardt is, by far, the smartest thing he’s done as far as Linhardt is concerned. The best way to expose your weakness is to show your hand.

Linhardt smiles at him across the three tables’ space between them, licking his lips. He’s got the corners of his eyes lined with red pigment, and his gaze is disconcertingly piercing. Byleth is standing across him and Hubert can see the fine point of his teacher’s foot pressed against Linhardt’s calf, naked in the sliver of skin that has exposed itself underneath his pressed pants. Hubert’s not really opposed to Byleth, keeping him at the safe distance he keeps all of them – as far away from Edelgard as she allows him to, willing allies but only begrudging friends. Byleth had chosen them and kept choosing them, and still does, and Hubert cannot be anything but grateful – yet, Byleth’s face when he speaks of Dimitri is still a raw kind of wound.

Pretending to listen, Linhardt tilts his head and presses two fingers to his collarbone, turning his attention back to Byleth, who uncrosses his legs, gesticulating in a manner that suggests he’s explaining something of importance, and the offending foot has no longer a point of contact to Linhardt’s leg. In any case, Linhardt’s hand on his own neck is entirely unassuming, except Hubert knows the bruise that’s formed underneath, the bite of his savage teeth right before Linhardt had dropped to his knees and unbuttoned his belt, eyes closed as Hubert had gone half-mad.

Edelgard later touched his wrist, concern written out over her pale features. It is unfortunate she knows him best, borne out of war-forged necessity and the coincidence of growing alongside her for years.

He had simply shaken his head, the white-hot angry feeling in his gut making it hard to rationalize what he was even angry about.

Sylvain and Felix had joined in together, sewn at the hip, when Byleth had asked them to, and had stuck through with them despite everything, with the same raw kind of love that Byleth himself holds for Dimitri. Hubert privately thinks the two of them might be trying to save him in their own way, though their way of showing it is incomprehensible to him, their disposition as cold as their land.

Sylvain is a menace, though Hubert privately respects both him and Felix, and their determination in the goal – the saving of all Fódlan - despite how Sylvain makes himself hard to respect sometimes.

The cafeteria is not particularly packed, and yet he sits down across Hubert, motioning Linhardt over.

“Goddess,” He mutters as he sets his tray in front of him, “I am so hungry.”

Linhardt takes a look at him, setting himself down gently. He is wearing a blouse that reveals his shoulders, sleeves falling just above the elbow, and a skirt – it is a long skirt, Hubert admits, his ankles barely visible, but it makes something in Hubert burn all the same. It is not as if Linhardt had never worn one – especially before the war, before everything, he had grown into wearing dresses and skirts, showing off his pale legs, his strong thighs. Yet, aesthetics had been switched out for practicality, necessity stemming from war. Linhardt had fallen asleep barely out of his armor more than a time or two. Recently, however, as the effort became more organized and their individual responsibilities became more manageable, Linhardt had fallen back into his old clothes as easy as anything - Hubert cannot say he minds.

The skirt flutters as Linhardt crosses his legs. Hubert pretends he doesn’t watch that happen.

“I don’t know how you eat that,” Linhardt tells Sylvain, looking at his food.

“Oh, be quiet,” Sylvain says, “If somebody doesn’t drag you out most days, you’d forget to eat at all.”

“Well,” Linhardt says, picking up his spoon. He looks at his onion soup with a cold detachment, as if there’d never been a more boring chore than eating, “If I could do it while sleeping, I probably would.”

“That’s not something to brag about,” Sylvain flicks his ear, and Hubert realizes just how much of an observer to their dynamic he is. “And anyway, if you could you’d probably even have sex while asleep.”

“That,” Linhardt retorts, picking up his gaze and looking straight at Hubert, eyes hot across the space between them. He licks his lips, tongue flashing pink, “That, I would most _definitely_ do.”

Then he turns away to tell Sylvain to get his mind out of the gutter, nudging him until he eats the disgusting slew of mashed potatoes he’s got on his plate, and Sylvain laughs as if to say he can’t help it.

Linhardt has always been sleeping in weird places – it is just that now, after this, Hubert cannot help but notice it. He takes to avoiding Linhardt as much as he can, even when he falls asleep, unassuming, in Hubert’s room.

He is forced to seek Linhardt out at midday, after a meeting gone awry, their intelligence report coming up with nothing except a vial full of thick liquid, bearing the news that half their squad had been wiped out in a night.

“It is a poison, most likely,” Edelgard had said, reaching for the glass container as if transfixed.

Byleth had near slapped her hand, swiping it out before she could touch it, then soundlessly passing it to Hubert. Edelgard had sighed with an almost imperceptible shake of the head – even in those moments, when she was most tired, her back was straight, her eyes resolute.

She had waved a hand away, sending the men to the infirmary, before falling silent, thinking. Hubert and Byleth had known she would want their guidance once she had decided on a course of action. So when she pointed at Hubert and told him to go figure out what kind of thing had killed more than a dozen men in a mere few hours, he could only nod. Then, she unrolled the map detailing Faerghus territory over the already spread out map of Fódlan, and motioned Byleth to her side.

Hubert watched for a second more, then went.

It is only half an hour later, sitting in his room, that he takes note of the progress he’s making, which is to say, none at all. It’s a useless feeling, being angry – if it’s a poison, then he’s bound to figure it out soon, despite the fact the concoction seems foreign, something far outside Adrestia, something unknown.

It is so rare for him to act like this. Early on, after Byleth had disappeared, he and Linhardt had started more or less working together, in a fair few things. There’s half a library of books on his floor and not one of them is Hubert’s – Hubert’s ordered them on his shelves a thousand times, time and time again to realize they’d fallen into disarray after Linhardt’s most recent visit. And Linhardt can probably keep his belongings in his own room but Hubert has never minded it. It is not that Hubert cannot work alone – but Linhardt is quiet, and competent, and always asks the right questions. And he is, most of all, loyal.

Linhardt and him had gotten into a weird type of routine in which Hubert was forced to chew off more than he could bite, Linhardt kissing him as if they’re lovers, and Hubert wishing for more than he could handle. They had never done anything – anything _more_ , anything definitive, even when Linhardt’s eyes were clouded over, hand over his mouth to muffle whatever sounds he couldn’t help making.

Hubert always seems to want more than he is due.

And Hubert is still a bit angry at himself but he sighs, closing the book he’d been holding, and pulling on his gloves as he strides out of his room and across to Linhardt’s, to ask for his help.

It is expected that at midday, after they had done their regular meetings and rounds, Linhardt should be asleep. What Hubert does not – cannot – anticipate is Linhardt himself.

In the rare hot summer that has overtaken Garreg Mach, Linhardt is dressed in silks – he’s lying down halfway on his side, one very naked leg precariously slipping off the side of the bed. He’s wearing a single piece of dark red fabric, shoulders entirely exposed, lined with ribbon and frills at the collar and hem. Its sides are a criss-cross of laced fabric and if Hubert untangled one of them, the entire thing could unspool in his hands like a gift, fruit for the taking underneath. Linhardt looks so relaxed, so vulnerable, open-faced as he makes an involuntary sigh and shifts onto his belly – the silk nightgown shifts as well, riding up, exposing the curve of his backside, and Hubert hears himself make a choked sound.

He should go, he thinks. Linhardt doesn’t know he’s here, comfort written out in his every feature.

But he doesn’t go. It is a stupid, magnetizing feeling, and Hubert has never thought himself a weak man but despite his better judgment he cannot help it – he comes closer, so silent he does not hear his own steps, and lowers himself at the edge of the bed. And Linhardt has always been a heavy sleeper but Hubert feels this moment like glass, dangerously close to breaking.

He brushes a gentle finger over the silk, rolling the fabric between his fingers, before he traces the ridges of Linhardt’s spine underneath. Linhardt shifts almost imperceptibly again, in a way that suggests he enjoys the touch, albeit subconsciously, leaning into it.

“Look at you,” Hubert whispers darkly, wishing Linhardt might wake up and tell him to go or tell him to stay, or do anything that might change the course of what Hubert is doing, “So beautiful.”

Hubert feels all the worse about it, Linhardt’s trusting, open body, and the way Hubert is already half-hard in his pants, close enough to lean over Linhardt and breathe him in.

He almost removes his hand, almost gets up and leaves. But Linhardt turns again and Hubert’s heart kicks into overdrive, thinking he might have been caught staring – but Linhardt only turns to one side, and Hubert realizes that under the flowing silk, Linhardt is wearing nothing. The slow trickle of madness finally breaks the dam.

He can’t help, then, when he traces the soft skin of his inner thigh, dusted with fine hairs, a beauty mark visible, that makes Hubert want to bite and break skin there. He shifts one leg over the other, straining against his pants. If Hubert ever thought of stopping, touching Linhardt has made that impossible, sealed this moment. He takes off one glove, letting it drop to the floor, and then it’s skin on skin, his fingers pushing under the gown, up Linhardt’s navel, up towards a nipple. He roughly pushes the heel of his other hand down his own crotch, pressure so hard it is next to painful.

Linhardt makes a breathless sound when Hubert’s thumb brushes his chest, a sound like when Hubert had once kissed right under his ear and then it had been a litany of ‘yes, yes, _yes’_ . He doesn’t speak now, just screws his eyes shut in his sleep, then his features relax once again. Hubert twitches into his own hand, undoing the laces of his pants, gripping himself. It’s uncomfortable and impossible, only a bit painful, and the pleasure that shoots through him is maddening, burning something slow into his gut. It is impossible, however, whatever he is doing. He feels the white-hot shame everywhere, making him ready to jump out of his skin, but then his desire is trying to break out of him and he cannot stop, he _cannot_.

There’s a bottle of clear liquid placed on the bedpost next to Linhardt and Hubert only takes a moment before he’s taking it, taking the cork out with his teeth, unwilling to remove the hand that’s trailed down to Linhardt’s navel, stroking there. Linhardt has grown half hard, breath coming out in short puffs, restless, writhing underneath Hubert’s touch. Hubert cannot help but wonder who is in his dreams, while he’s sleeping and Hubert is doing this like a deviant.

He removes the other glove unwillingly, sniffing the bottle only to realize it has the same clear floral fragrance that Hubert has learned to associate with Linhardt – it is, it appears, a body lotion. Hubert can barely think through the haze, and he can no more stop himself than he can stop a tidal wave. He pours some of it onto his hand and then he’s blissfully, rutting into his slick palm in relief.

“Ah-” Linhardt gasps as his hips twitch, and he doesn’t even know it, still lost in sleep, still unaware of anything. His cock is fully roused between his pale thighs, seeking out Hubert’s warm hand, his insistent touch. His body is a weapon, iron-clad muscle, but underneath his ministrations, Linhardt is soft like ripe fruit.

He could stop here, he thinks, as his fingers press lower against Linhardt’s entrance, the muscle twitching with the stimulation. Linhardt is half moaning, his cock red and leaking clear liquid on his navel. Hubert could stop here – he could finish himself off and know he’d done something inexcusable but it would only be him knowing.

He wishes he could pluck himself out of time, wishes he could look upon this with a calm and clear mind, but as he pours more of the ointment into his hand and pushes a finger into Linhardt, he doesn’t remember half of it – the dark and guilty feeling, the hate, everything is awash in the glow of watching Linhardt’s neck flush down to his chest, his nipples clearly hard and visible through the thin fabric. He moans thickly in his sleep, pushing back into the fingers tenderly.

His voice is rough from misuse and Hubert doesn’t speak at all, breathing heavily through his nose as he watches transfixed as two, then three, fingers disappear into Linhardt with a wet sound. His own dick is forgotten, listening to the broken sounds Linhardt makes each time Hubert presses into him.

Then, in a fit of real madness, he’s crawling closer, never putting his weight on top of Linhardt, but hovering close enough, face to face, that he could kiss him. He doesn’t.

He’s still clothed, shirt buttoned, dress coat restraining movement, still in his boots - except for his unlaced pants and flushed dick, weeping precome. He presses up against Linhardt’s leg shallowly and when Linhardt’s shifts and pushes up, he thinks stop, stop, stop, _stop_. He thinks of Linhardt’s dark eyes, his finger unassumingly tracing Hubert’s wrist as he had looked at him, suggesting he wouldn’t mind it if-

And then, he doesn’t stop, he can’t – he grips himself in one well-oiled hand and he presses the head of his cock to Linhardt’s entrance. He’s not sure what he’s doing or if he’s planning to do anything at all - but then Linhardt moans, half crying in his sleep, his lashes casting long shadows, and his lower lip bitten bloody.

“I-ah-” He whispers, sleep talking, “Oh- _Plea_ -”

And Hubert has no mind to heed the dark shame of it when Linhardt is so warm, so tight, so, so good. Hubert groans, stilling, before he pushes entirely into it and then it’s an exercise in patience not to finish, or fuck Linhardt so hard he breaks.

It is not like he had been above wanting Linhardt, but he would have never imagined it like this. He would probably search for a way to remove this from his mind, if he had the heart to forget it. But he doesn’t wish to, even if it’s only for now, even if the way Linhardt is crying out in pleasure underneath him is something he can see now only and then never.

Hubert starts rocking into him, hot with embarrassment and want, and he had thought he would be better than that, thought he would be better than the sort of animal he’s acting like.

But then Linhardt is gasping like he’s been doused in cold water, eyes flashing open, and he sleepily slurs, “Goddess, _what_ -” before Hubert pushes in and then he’s moaning, a low and desperate sound from the throat.

“Oh,” He says, breathless, and Hubert realizes his pupils are dark, eyes blown wide open, face a flushed mess, “Hello there.”

And then Hubert realizes just what he is doing, and it’s a sort of chaos, the fog of want, untangling in his mind – he didn’t think Linhardt would truly sleep through it, but as his piercing gaze finds Hubert’s, he stills his hips despite himself, shamed into it.

“No, no, no,” Linhardt groans, as he raises a leg and pushes the heel of his foot into Hubert’s waist, “No, you’re _not_ going to stop now. Move, just-”

He’s still sleep-heavy, warm and pliant, moving awkwardly as if his body is barely catching up to his mind, but he locks his other leg behind Hubert’s back and pulls him in.

“Move, you-,” Linhardt half-sobs, bringing a hand to touch tenderly between his own legs, right where they’re connected, and the sound he makes is something of a fantasy, “Want you, oh, I feel so _full_.”

“You-” Hubert begins, and his tongue is as heavy as lead in his mouth, “Oh, _Goddess_.”

And then he forgets everything, forgets that he was about to apologise, forgets anything but the way that a strap of the nightgown has fallen off one shoulder, revealing one of Linhardt’s nipples, hard - he leans down, flicking his tongue over it and Linhardt’s back is an arch, the moan that rips out of him loud, so loud. His hips cant up involuntarily, fucking into Linhardt roughly. Any coherent thought he might have entertained has been wiped clean with the way Linhardt pushes into him, his cock leaking onto his stomach, wondering how Linhardt had not killed him the moment he had woken up.

But Linhardt just breathes out, broken by a sob as Hubert angles into him, and his eyes are glassy, tears gathering at his lashes.

“Kiss me,” He begs, his arms coming up to wrap around Hubert’s neck, bouncing helplessly on Hubert’s dick. He’s so tight, so blissfully warm, and Hubert feels so close to insanity.

He cannot help the savage bite of his mouth as he kisses Linhardt, teeth digging into his lower lip. Linhardt moans again, and he’s far too sleep-muddled to help much but he spreads his legs wider, letting Hubert kiss him while driving his hips madly into the warm grip of his body. His hips press into Linhardt’s beautiful thighs as he bottoms out entirely, Linhardt spread impossibly open, dick on full display, curled against the dark silk of his gown.

“You are,” He growls into Linhardt’s neck and feels Linhardt shudder underneath him, each thrust punching the breath out of him, “So stupid. Sleeping with the door open, do you even know what you _look_ like right now? Anyone could have come in.”

Linhardt makes a low sound, eyes falling closed and he looks almost as if he’s fallen asleep again. 

“Would you have liked that?” Hubert grits out, the syrupy haze of his mind making it hard to think with how hot and open, and wet Linhardt is underneath him, “Or were you waiting for somebody?”

“You,” Linhardt gasps, a tear finally rolling down his beautiful face, “You, only you. Wanted you so much, tried to get you to do this for weeks, I -ah... _ah_ ...thought you didn’t want me but I still _wanted_ you so much, so-.”

Hubert’s desire is molten lead in him, desperate and burning, remaking him. He makes a wounded sound, trying to touch everywhere, naked hands on naked skin, kissing Linhardt like doing anything else would be unthinkable, his tongue licking into Linhardt’s, breathing the same air.

“You- who wouldn’t want you?” The words are a sort of helpless confession, unfurling out of him.

And then there’s not much more - Linhardt is still helplessly taking the brutal pace, tears rolling down his cheeks, whispering something that might have been Hubert’s name, except he can’t say anything when all his words tail-end into a moan.

“I-oh-” Linhardt gasps, eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed, “Hubert, I’m- _oh-_ ”

Hubert trails a hand down, wrapping it around Linhardt’s flushed and leaking cock, and the angle is uncomfortable, but Linhardt doesn’t seem to want to move, and the sound that hiccups out of him makes it worth it. Linhardt’s hips involuntarily twitch, and he’s so perfect, stretched wide around him underneath, and they’re both wearing their clothes, almost perfectly dressed, except Linhardt is throwing his head back, exposing his neck, his shoulders lifting off the bed in a perfect arch.

Hubert grips him harder, pressing, angling his hips in a way that makes Linhardt cry out, saying ‘please, please, please’ and then he’s coming all over himself, all over his beautiful silk robe, flushed everywhere, face red. Hubert’s hips hitch in their motion, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Linhardt’s as he makes a low sound in his throat, finishing hot inside him. Linhardt moans weakly in a way that says he’s overstimulated but that he still finds the mess extremely appealing and Hubert can’t help laughing.

His limbs have turned boneless and he rests his weight onto Linhardt, chest to chest, breathing together. When he looks at him, Linhardt’s eyes are bottomless and scorching, his lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Ah,” Linhardt says, “I’m so tired.”

“You jest,” Hubert says sarcastically, getting up to clean himself and then help Linhardt change.

“What did you come here for anyway?” He murmurs after Hubert has wiped them down both. He’s taken off everything, standing only in his undershirt as he sits down next to Linhardt.

Hubert looks at him, and Linhardt is sleep-heavy and satisfied, blinking lazily.

“Nothing urgent,” He says, laying down next to him, and Linhardt fits himself into the crook of his arm, “I’ll tell you when we wake up.”


End file.
